Bad Touch Tempo
by BetweenLines55
Summary: For three years, Matthew Jones-Williams has worked in a diner in the middle-of-nowhere Vermont, waiting tables and happily making more than his brother, the sort of mechanic. The day a Euro pop-punk band's tour bus breaks down is the day that Matt's life got a little more interesting. Enter Gilbert Beilschmidt, bassist for Bad Touch Tempo. T for language and other things.


**From a tumblr prompt, "a bus full of baddies" with punk!BTT and punk!England. Mainly PruCan, implied Fruk. Can be Spamano if you squint and brotherly CanAme. Rated mainly for language and mentions of "adult" things, but not really. Enjoy!**

Bad Touch Tempo

They really didn't get a lot of out-of-towners at _Moe's_, mostly business men during the noon lunch rush, or old ladies and their knitting groups. Occasionally there was a trucker from out of state, and when the senator had come to town shit had blown up big time, but this upstate in Vermont, that was about as exciting as you got.

Matthew had been working at the diner for three years, since he was sixteen, and right from the start his older brother had told him he was going to be bored to death. Matt had come close several times, but with all the tips he still made more than Al, which made the possible damage of brain cells worth it. Now, at nineteen, he was junior manager and got an extra half hour for lunch. He could name practically everyone that came to the diner and what time they came at. He knew his little world perfectly.

Until a tour bus had broken down half a mile up the road, leaving one of the most popular Euro-rock bands of the decade stranded in the chilly New England autumn. Then shit had blown up big time.

It wasn't so bad or noticeable at first. The only thing that had raised a few heads from cups of coffee, newspapers, and slices of pie had been the loud mouthed man strutting through the double doors, followed by a bored looking threesome and a man who seemed to be trying to calm down the first.

"I CAN'T'A BELIEVE IT, I HAD'A YOU CHECK THOSE DAMN-"

"Lovi~, _por favore_, please calm down, it's nobody's fault we drove over some glass."

The first man, Lovi, who seemed to be Italian, plunked himself down in a booth (rude bastard didn't even read the "Please Wait to Be Seated" sign, Matt noticed) and the rest of his party followed him. From his place behind the counter, Matthew was able to get a good look at them.

"Lovi" was a short, tanned man with dark hair and hazel eyes that were astutely out of place in a diner full of pale, northern people. He was dressed impeccably, wearing a BlueTooth headset in one of his ears. The man trying to calm him down was also tan and out of place, wearing a sweater with patches on the elbows and a tattoo poking out of his sleeve.

The three sitting across from them were looking bored and familiarized to the fiasco playing out in front of them. The one by the window was short, had green eyes, eyebrows the size of the caterpillars Matt's brother had used to like to shove down Matt's shirt when they were kids, and looked like he'd just walked off the cover of Rolling Stone. He was leaning again a blond, blue eyed man, growing a scruffy beard and examining his finger nails under the fluorescent lights.

It was the last man that really caught Matt's attention. He was albino, had six piercings in the ear that was visible to Matthew, and had this sort of shit-eating grin that just made you want to ask what he knew that you didn't.

He was so engrossed in trying to figure out who they were that it took his manager, Emma, a few tries to get his attention. "Matthew. Matthew. _Matthew Jones-Williams!_"

He jumped. "Sorry, Em. You needed something?"

Emma was one of those women with strong intuition. She smirked, and a smirking Em never meant anything good, "If you're done ogling them, take their orders."

"I wasn't _ogling_ them," Matt muttered. Em just raised an eyebrow, damn her. Coughing to cover his blush, he reached for his note pad and skimmed around the counter to go take orders.

He adjusted his green _Moe's _polo and straightened his back. His mother always scolded him about his bad, slumping posture. Now was not a time to slouch or be intimidated especially when—oh _Dieu_, they were staring at him, play it cool, dammit.

"See, I fucking _told you_, we'd get service here." It was the albino that had caught Matt's attention earlier. His voice was scratchy and low, and damn, he was _German_. "Course we'd get service here, git, it's a _diner_, that's what they _do,_" said Green Eyes, who sounded English.

"What the fuck do you want?" Lovi said. Matt frowned, so no chance for a tip then. "I'm Matthew, I'm here to take your order, so what do _you_ want?"

"Hot tea," Green Eyes said, "and toast."

"Coffee,_ s'il vous plaît_." Beardy said. So French or _Quebeçois_. Dear Lord, what would he do if it was a damn _Quebeçois_ again?

"Do you have tomato juice?" The green eyed man that had been trying to calm Lovino down asked. Matthew nodded and jotted it down. "Same," Lovi said, "whatever."

"Beer!" The albino said. Matthew frowned, "Sorry, sir, but it's ten in the morning. Isn't that a little...early for alcohol?"

Green Eyes snorted, "Not for Gil."

Gil...huh.

"Fine, fine, totally un-awesome. Coffee, then." Matthew nodded, assured them he'd be right out with their order and left them to their menus. Em was waiting for him behind the chrome countertop, another knowing look on her face that made Matt's stomach twist unpleasantly. "Toast," was the most intelligent thing he could think to say.

"What?"

"The Brit, he wants toast."

Vaguely he heard Em call back to her brother in the kitchen to get that toast underway while he mechanically went about, filling their drink orders. Two coffees, two tomato juices and a hot tea. Loading the drinks onto the tray, he turned and—

"Jesus!" Matthew shouted, hand flying to his mouth. Gil was sitting at the counter, chin cupped in one hand, leering at him. Steadying himself, Matt was proud of the fact that he hadn't ended up spilling the drinks.

"Close, but not quite, _liebe_."

"Can I help you?" Matthew said impatiently, setting the tray down on the counter, "I'm kind of working right now."

"And I'm kinda the one whose trying to flirt with you so calm down for one _gottverdammt_ second." Gil said, just as impatient.

"Who are you?" Matthew said. Sure, Gil was _attractive_, but he was also an asshole. Matthew had done the whole _attractive foreign asshole_ thing and it hadn't worked out to well. In fact, it had ended with his brother taking a baseball bat too the Cuban's face, the two timing bastard. Even now, Gil had raised a hand to his chest, feigning insult, "You don't know who we are? Who _I _am?"

Matthew deadpanned, "This place is the ass crack of Vermont. The most exciting thing that happens around here is when moose get into the high school gym."

"Gilbert Beilschmidt. Bassist for _Bad Touch Tempo_." Gil, or _Gilbert_ which sounded far too regal for this ass with six pieces of metal through his right ear and four in the left, said as he extended a hand for Matthew to shake. Hesitantly, Matthew took Gil's hand and instantly regretting it as the German flipped it over and kissed the back of it.

"Asshole," Matthew said and instantly retracted his hand. Gil laughed obnoxiously, "You'll have to try better than that if you want to drive me away, _engel_."

Luckily, or unluckily considering it was Em, Emma chose that moment to bring out the Brit's toast and some butter. "I see you're making..._friends_. Here, get back to work, Ned's not paying you to flirt."

"Ned's not paying me at all. Your parents sign my checks." Matthew said, taking the toast shoved at him and moving to pick up the tray of drinks, which had miraculously disappeared. His eyes immediately snapped to the booth with the punks, and what Matthew guessed to be their manager. Gil waved flirtatiously, wiggling his fingers before proceeding to take a sip of his hot coffee.

_Dieu_, Matthew hated Vermont.

Luckily, they hadn't wanted to order food. Unluckily, Lovino Vargas, or _Lovi _as he was more often nicknamed, the manager of apparently one of the most popular Euro punk-pop bands, _Bad Touch Tempo _(Matthew had never heard of them, but then again, small town _Vermont_) had wanted the number of the nearest repair shop. There was only one in town. And Matthew's brother worked there. If Al ever laid eyes on the band members, or more importantly the albino German who kept trying to chat up his brother, punctured tires would be the least of _BTT_'s worries.

"My brother works at the local mechanic shop, he drives the tow trucks and changes tires and stuff. Call and tell whoever answers the phone that it's for Al and it's a favor for Matt." Matthew had told Lovino, trying to ignore the pale, bracelet-ed hand that was reach towards to grab his ass. Matthew went ahead and stomped on Gil's foot. The Frenchman next to the albino had laughed at the yelp Gil had made.

Now Matthew was behind the safety of the counter, waiting for Mrs. Johnson's rhubarb pie to go through the window from where Ned was in the kitchen. Em was not so secretly keeping an eye on their out-of-continent visitors. Matthew could see her face visually rumple when Gil got up and sauntered over to where the blond was behind the counter.

"How do you stand working in a boring-arse place like this?" Gil said, settling himself on one of the barstools. Matthew continued to rub at one dis colored spot at the counter with his dishrag. "You know, my brother asked me the same thing when I started."

"Which was when?"

"Three years ago."

"_Scheiße_. And you haven't un-awesomely died of boredom yet?"

Matthew shook his head, "It's nice, the quiet. Gets me out of the house, _away_ from my brother and you wouldn't believe how many books I've finished during my shift over the years." Gilbert laughed, opening his mouth so say something before Ned called out from the kitchen, "Rhubarb for Mrs. Johnson, Matt." He moved to retrieve it before it was swept up by Em.

As she passed by, Em pulled on the strings of Matthew's apron, "Take an early lunch, Matt. Your brother won't get here for half an hour at least." More quietly into his ear, she said, "I know you don't get out much, but just be careful." Matthew hoped his face wasn't as red as it felt when he heard the small metallic crinkle of a condom wrapper being slipped into his back pocket.

"Awesome," Gil said, tobacco stained smile bright on his face, "let's go for a smoke break."

…

For all of Vermont's faults, the state was really pretty. Tall pine trees took up most of the space behind the employee parking lot in the back of _Moe's_, if you could call it a parking lot. It was mostly a flattened, dirt area covered in rocks, just smooth enough to drive over and not send you spiraling into the siding of the diner. Sometimes, when it was warmer, Matt came out here, sat in the back of his pick-up truck, listened to the birds, and ate his lunch. Now though, in early October, it was starting to become a little brisk outside. Matt was glad he had grabbed his jacket out of the back before being violently dragged outside by the German man.

Gil had lit up a cigarette as soon as they had hopped into the bed of Matt's truck. He had had the courtesy to offer one to Matthew, but the other man had declined. If Emma, or God forbid, _Al_, caught him smelling like cigarette smoke, Gil wouldn't make it out of town alive. "This your truck?" Gil finally asked after he had taken a few drags.

"Mm," Matt said, reclining against the back window.

"It's an ancient, un-awesome piece of shit."

"Hey! My brother and I fixed this car up together, it fucking _purrs_." Matt grumbled. His '84 Chevy Silverado was his baby and damn if some German, pop-punk, pretty boy with half a jewelry shop in his ears was going to insult her.

"_Gott_, didn't know the hunk of metal meant something to you, sorry." Gil scooted back until he was reclining next to Matt against the truck cab. With a flick of his wrist, the German's cigarette was flicked onto the gravel below, extinguished. With his next question, Matt watched as curling smoke left Gil's lungs and escaped into the chilly air.

"So you got a brother, huh? A mechanic, you said?"

"Sorta, he's kinda an intern right now. Does grunt work and stuff. Tows people, changes oil."

"He older or younger?"

"Why are you so interested?"

"Just answer the damn question, _Amerikaner_."

"I was actually born in Canada. My dad was in the military. So…Canadian. Whatever that is…in German."

"Well aren't you full of surprises, _Kanadier_. Is your _Bruder_ Canadian, too?"

"Is this fucking Twenty Questions? No, he isn't. He was born in Boston, he's 361 days older than me; turned 20 this summer. And when he gets here, if you try something he doesn't like, you won't be getting back on that tour bus with all of your appendages working."

Gil laughed his obnoxious laugh again, as though he didn't believe Matthew when he said Al was a force to be reckoned with, "Hey, I know that shit. I have a _kleinen Bruder_, too. He's a pain in my _arsch_ but I'd kill for him. I think that's just how being a big brother works, ya know?"

"Yeah, sure. Now you know all about me, and all I know is that you're German and you're in a fairly famous punk band."

"You know my name is Gilbert Beilschmidt. That's something."

"So I can Google you, so what?"

Gil motioned to the phone shaped lump in Matthew's pocket. He smirked when Matthew started to remove his phone from his pocket, "You really want me to Google you?"

Grinning, Gil just nodded and dug around in his flannel's pocket, producing his pack of cigarettes again, shaking the carton, "Now you _sure _you don't want one?"

Matt looked at the carton warily. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd smoked, Carlos had had a thing for Cuban cigars, and didn't mind the occasional American cigarette, but that had been the last time. Two whole years, he hadn't touched them. Sure, Matt had been able to hold out the first time, but Gil didn't _really_ seem like a horrible guy. One wouldn't hurt.

Matthew held out the hand that wasn't holding his phone, "Hit me."

As he took his first drag (wow, had he really missed the feel of smoke circulating in his lungs like this? He was pathetic) he typed, single-handed, Gil's name into the Google search bar. Almost immediately, he had 377 million hits and an excerpt of Gil's bio from Wikipedia. "C'mon," Gil said, flicking ashes into the truck bed (Note to Self, Matthew thought, get him back for that later) with a languid motion of his wrist, "Read it aloud."

_**[Taken from Wikipedia]**_

**Gilbert Frederick Beilschmidt is a German musician, best known for playing bass in the European****,**** pop-punk band he co-founded, Bad Touch Tempo. He was also the co-producer of the Bad Touch Tempo's EP, **_**Have You Found Your Revolution Yet?**_

**Born: January 18, 1989 (age 25), East Berlin, East Germany**

**Height: 5'10 (178 cm)**

**Nationality: German**

**Siblings: Ludwig Beilschmidt **

**Music Group: Bad Touch Tempo (see also: **_**Francis Bonnefoy, Antonio Fernández Carriedo, and Arthur Kirkland)**_

"Well look at you, famous with your own Wikipedia page and everything, how special." Matthew said, finishing his cigarette and throwing it over the side of the truck bed like his companion had done earlier.

Giving him the shit-eating grin Matthew had first spotted on him, Gil said, "See, I'm totally awesome."

Matthew chuckled, "Of course, how horrible of me to think otherwise. You're quite proud of yourself, aren't you?"

"Of course, _liebe_. We're playing a show in Toronto Saturday, you should come." Gil said, nudging Matthew with his shoulder.

"And why should I, Gilbert Frederick Beilschmidt?" Matthew said, returning the look on Gil's face. The German leaned a little closer, until he was almost nose to nose with the Canadian. Matthew could almost feel the piece of foil-wrapped rubber in his back pocket. Of course they weren't going to have sex, that was stupid, Matthew, get yourself together…although a kiss wouldn't be horrible...

"Because, Matthew…um…What's your last name?"

"Jones-Williams, it's hyphenated."

"Because, Matthew Jones-Williams-it's-hyphenated, I think you like—"

But Matthew Jones-Williams-it's-hyphenated never got to know what Gil thought he liked because Em, his lovely manager with horrible timing, opened the back door and yelled, "Matthew, get your ass back in here, Al's arrived and whatever-his-name-is's manager needs him!"

Gil swore right against Matt's face, close enough for the younger man to smell the sharp scent of Gil's latest cigarette on his breath. That reminded him, he needed some mint gum, fast.

…

Gilbert was a booze-'em-and-loose-'em kind of guy. He got around in almost every city they stopped at. He had a reputation back home in his neighborhood as the punk who wouldn't hold down a job or a partner; he had the first fault taken care of, Matthew Jones-Williams might take care of the second.

As soon as whatever-her-name-was had summoned them, Matthew had pulled away almost immediately. You lost him, Beilschmidt, Gil reprimanded himself as Matthew led him back inside, don't let this one get away, _Dummkopf_!

As soon as they entered the main dining area, Gil spotted Lovino talking to a man who looked very much like Matthew, but this guy was maybe a little broader in the shoulders, his hair a darker shade of blond, and his eyes not quite the same alluring color as Matthew's. This had to be Al, the sort-of mechanic.

"Hey, Beilschmidt, get your sorry ass over here," Lovino called, "As soon as the bus is fixed we're outta this shit hole!"

_Gottverdamnt, _you're losing him, _Dummkopf_!

…

Matthew was whisked away almost immediately by Al to help with the maintenance of the currently out-of-service tour bus half a mile up the road. He loved his brother, really. Sure, he was kinda an idiot and never picked up his socks on his side of their room and was pretty overall annoying and insensitive, but Alfred was his brother, and his best friend, and that was what was important.

"So, Em told me you and that band guy were getting pretty comfy in the back," Al started conversationally as he rolled the new tire over to the bus. Of course Em would tell Al. She obviously only _tolerated_ Gilbert's affections.

"Is it really so bad that someone took an interest in me for once, Al?" Matthew said as he handed his brother a wrench. Al shrugged, making his already ill-fitting jumpsuit stretch even more awkwardly across his wide shoulders, "He's gonna be outta town in like, an hour, and he's probably ten years older than you are, Matt. It's just…not gonna work out. Be reasonable."

"For your information, Alfred, he's only six years older and another thing, fuck you. Who says it's not gonna work out? Who says I have to be reasonable? You don't get to be reasonable while you dream of being a goddamn rocket scientist or whatever! Have you ever wondered that maybe I don't want to work at the dinner for the rest of my miserable life in the ass crack of Vermont, that maybe I want to make something out of myself and get out of here, one day? Maybe I find Gilbert attractive and funny and my ticket OUT OF THIS SHIT HOLE!"

Matthew was standing by the end of his speech, waving a screwdriver from Al's toolbox wildly about, not realizing it until Al held up his hands in surrender, obviously cowed. "Ok, ok, I get that, no need to shout or quote that angry Italian dude back there. But…you're only 19, you're still my brother, and I'm just trying to look out for you. The last time—"

"Gil isn't like Carlos, Al."

"Then what do you want me to say, Mattie?"

From behind those wire rimmed glasses, Alfred looked at his brother with those big baby blues. Damn him and those puppy eyes, Matthew thought. They worked on everyone, everywhere. "Come with me to Toronto," Matthew found himself saying.

"Toronto?"

"Gil and his band are playing there, Saturday. That isn't too far, it's like a seven and a half hour drive, and don't you like that kind of music or something? I can make this work!"

"Mattie…"

"_Dieu_, Al, please? Your approval actually sort of means something to me, God knows why."

Alfred was quiet for a second, moving to pick up the wrench he had dropped earlier when Matthew had been yelling. "Help me change this tire, I'll think about it."

…

True to Alfred's word, the tour bus was ready to go in less than an hour; Al was behind the wheel, driving the half mile to _Moe's_ to drop it off. Matthew was quiet for all of it.

The four band members and their manager stood outside the diner with takeout boxes of pie that Emma had felt the need to provide. Lovino had all but snatched the keys out of Al's hand as soon as the two brother's had gotten out of the bus that certainly smelled like it inhabited five men that had habits of drinking and smoking. "Come on, you _bastardos_, the sooner we get to Canada, the better." The engine turned over almost immediately, as three of the four band members followed their manager onto the bus.

The albino, East German bassist with six piercings in one ear and four in the other wearing a flannel with a pack of Marlboro's in the pocket hung back. He took a few steps towards Matt, ignoring the man's older brother's death glare. "So…Matthew Jones-Williams."

"Gilbert Frederick Beilschmidt."

"Here," Gil said quickly, a light blush making itself known on the German's pale cheeks. Before Matthew knew it, something was being pushed into his back pocket for the second time that day and a pair of pale, cigarette-tasting lips were pressed against his own for just over a second. "I-I'll see you soon, _liebe_."

…

Two days later, Gilbert Frederick Beilschmidt and the rest of the Bad Touch Tempo had just finished their final show in Toronto, Canada with a debut song the bassist had whipped up on the seven and a half hour ride from Vermont to Toronto. Gilbert, backed by Arthur, had crooned a melody about a whirlwind romance, _Second Cigarette's the Charm_. It had gone over better than Gil had anticipated, considering the very different sound of Arthur and Francis' riffs. Lovino had actually seemed, for once, pleased with something Gilbert had done.

But now the show was over and he was coming down from his post-show high. He needed some beer and a cigarette and maybe a groupie or two to screw around with for a few hours. Francis already had Arthur cornered on a table, standing in between his legs.

Gil ducked through the backstage security. The last thing he had to do for the night was just say hello to whomever had gotten a backstage pass, dole out a few autographs, take a couple of pictures and that was that.

As soon as he walked to where they kept the fans backstage, Gil recognized him almost immediately. The beanie and the Rolling Stones t-shirt looked much better on the slim frame of the Americanized-Canadian than that ugly green polo from the diner. And if those violet eyes weren't a dead giveaway, the angry looking, broad shouldered entourage giving him a death glare certainly was.

"Matthew fucking Jones-Williams, you're so fucking perfect."

Matthew just laughed, digging into his jacket pocket and pulling out an empty cigarette carton, with a pick depicting a Prussian flag on it taped to the cardboard, signed with the bassist's signature and the Sharpie'd out message, "Let this guy, and whatever un-awesome person he brings, in –the totally awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt"

…

_**[Taken from Wikipedia]**_

**Gilbert Frederick Beilschmidt is a German musician, best known for playing bass in the European, pop-punk band he co-founded, Bad Touch Tempo. He was also the co-producer of the Bad Touch Tempo's EP, **_**Have You Found Your Revolution Yet? **_**and their fourth album **_**Hell in a Violet Package**_**. **

**Born: January 18, 1989 (age 28), East Berlin, East Germany**

**Height: 5'10 (178 cm)**

**Nationality: German**

**Siblings: Ludwig Beilschmidt**

**Spouse: Matthew Jones-Williams****,**_**2015-**_

**Music Group: Bad Touch Tempo (see also: **_**Francis Bonnefoy, Antonio Fernández Carriedo, and Arthur Kirkland)**_

**See Also: Matthew Jones-Williams, author of **_**Tour Bus and Twenty Questions: from a Diner to Deutschland **_

* * *

**And that's the end of that if you can believe it. This was a long WIP. Yes, ok I did get Gil's name from Old Fritz, I thought it was fitting. And now for the translations:**

**From Spanish:**

**Por favore- please**

**From French: **

**Dieu- God**

**S'il vous plait- please (formal)**

**Quebeçois- of Quebec **

**From German:**

**Liebe- dear, darling **

**Gottverdammt- Goddammit**

**Engel- angel**

**Scheiße- shit**

**Gott- God**

**Amerikaner- American**

**Kanadier- Canadian**

**(kleinen) Bruder- (little) brother**

**Arsch- ass**

**Dummkopf- idiot/knuckle head**

**From Italian-**

**Bastardos- bastards**

**Leave a review and tell me what you guys think of this AU!**


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